I'm 2,785 miles from home, standing barefoot in an eerily coffin-size, windowless room. The walls are padded, and I can't hear a thing. My heart is pounding—but not because of the pitch-blackness, sudden-onset claustrophobia, or the silence screaming in my eardrums. Instead, I'm about to sing my very first take of my very first song for one of the music industry's best producers, who's waiting on the other side of the recording-booth door.

The fastest-rising Google search term of 2011 wasn't Osama bin Laden, Charlie Sheen, or iPhone 5—it was Rebecca Black, the 14-year-old from Orange County, California, whose cheeseball music video, "Friday" (a $4,000 gift from her family produced by vanity recording studio Ark Music Factory), got her nearly 200 million YouTube views and an avalanche of Internet backlash. If you haven't seen the video (really?!), it features the shiny-haired teen lip-synching in a convertible with friends and smiling through so-dumb-it-hurts Auto-Tuned lyrics such as "Yesterday was Thursday, Thursday/ Today it is Friday, Friday."­­ Commenters tore her apart—"troll hag that needs to be killed with fire" is just one lovely example—and eventually Black was bullied out of school, though Katy Perry did give her a cameo in her "Last Friday Night (T.G.I.F.)" video, she's since performed on The X Factor, and she was reportedly making $24,900 per week off of "Friday."

My first reaction to Black's effort wasn't to mock her but to think, What if they'd had this around when I was a kid? Once a year, my parents drove me and my brother and sister from our suburban Chicago home to Navy Pier to make a family music video. For $35, the studio let us pick a song and then filmed us lip-synching in a green-screened room, wielding fake microphones and plastic saxes. (Some families get portraits; the Vadnals have a video version of the Coasters' "Yakety Yak.") It was always fun, and though none of us had serious ambitions to be a rock star, watching yourself act like one has a creepy-cool novelty factor.

There are Internet stars with real talent, of course: Dreamy indie singer Lana Del Rey and oddball rappers Azealia Banks and Kreayshawn spun YouTube videos released last year into major-label record contracts. Just five years ago, Justin Bieber was a kid drumming on kitchen tables. Viral videos by unknowns have become part of the way we experience music of all kinds, and I wondered just how easy it would be to get attention on the Web, not so much to be plucked out of anonymity by a record company but to become a viral phenom, if for only a minute.

Since I work at ELLE, I could use my job's built-in access (namely, Creative Director Joe Zee) and industry connections (I've been writing about music for three years) to try to find out. The idea was to write and record a song, post it on YouTube, and wait for my views to skyrocket. As I said, that was the idea.

Fortuitously, a few days after I get the go-ahead for the project, YouTube-launched pop duo Karmin stops by ELLE's office to play their debut album. I reveal my plan, and their eyes light up. "What you need is a purple cow," Nick Noonan says, referencing a 2003 Seth Godin–penned marketing manifesto. "You're from the Midwest, so you get it. You see all these black-and-white cows. But you need to be a purple cow." Karmin's purple cow is Amy Heidemann's razor-sharp rapping. Black's, I hate to say, was her apparent unawareness of how cringeworthy her (extremely catchy) song was. What will set me apart?

For more advice, I call Kreayshawn, the foul-mouthed rapper who signed a deal with Columbia Records after her video "Gucci Gucci" got 900,000-plus hits in a week. (Connections are nice.) There's no formula, she says. "It's all about luck and working with good people." She pauses. "I have a question for you. What would you do if you made this video and you instantly became a star and people wanted to find you?"

Stammering, I say this is only for a story, I'm not actually jonesing to become an Internet pop star, I, I, I… But then, "I've always been into music. I had rock-star fantasies as a kid, so this could get really addictive."

"Yeah, well, shit," she says. "Good luck. I hope you make it."

Oh man, I'm already doing what I do after great first dates: I start imagining my farmhouse-chic wedding with the guy, then how he'll coach me through breathing exercises in the delivery room. In my projected musical future, I'm walking the Grammy red carpet (something even Black did this year), tweeting with Drake, and swirling a glass of rosé while explaining to Kathie Lee and Hoda how "this whole thing was just for a story—I never imagined it getting this big!"

But then, who among us can say she hasn't imagined what it would be like to be a rock star? It's the reason places like Ark Music Factory—and karaoke bars—exist. Steven Tyler recently said that "being onstage is…like being on drugs." (He should know.)

Before fame can be mine, however, I need to write a song—a fashion anthem, my editor and I decide. The problem: I have zero experience writing music. To my utter delight, Kara DioGuardi, the former American Idol judge and songwriter behind zillions of hits such as Kelly Clarkson's "Walk Away," Celine Dion's "Taking Chances," and Pink's "Sober," says she'll consider writing a song with me. I see our first phone call as an audition—I even prepare a few bars in case she asks me to sing for my supper—and I tell her that while I'm no Aretha, I used to sing in high school and I'm game for anything. She says I don't have to worry about how to write a treble clef; we'll just sit in a room and work on a melody with a production team. "But I'm not going to baby you," she says. Still, I'm heartened: Kara's nice. Kara's fair. Kara might just send me to Hollywood!

A week later, her slick-but-kind manager and publishing-company partner, Stephen Finfer, calls to say they'll need a vocal sample. "Of course," I reply, as though I've got a bunch of them lying around. That weekend, I record an a cappella version of "I Love Rock 'n' Roll" into my MacBook and send Finfer the clip. He writes back: "Check you out! not bad!!" (Phew.) Later, on the phone, he says, "You've got a nice vibrato, and your pitch is pretty good. Trust me, because we've worked with people who can't sing at all." Hmm, is that an insult or a compliment? I'll take the latter.

All of this explains how I end up in a three-bedroom North Hollywood ranch house rented by Dan Book and Alexei Misoul, pop-music-production wunderkinds who are responsible for the kind of club-thumping beats you hear in Usher and Rihanna songs. They're young—Book is 28, and Misoul 25—and from what I can tell, their daily routine goes something like this: Wake up at noon, write some music, hang out, write some more music, hang out a little more, stay up until 2 A.M. making music, crash. Photos: Jacqueline Bates (bottom middle); Jason Odell (others)

When DioGuardi arrives, we get straight to songwriting. "So did you bring any lyrics?" she asks. My stomach sinks. I was hoping she wouldn't ask me to show her the rhymes I wrote hastily on the plane. I hand over my iPhone: "Out with my friends tonight/ Gotta be the perfect height/ Stepping out by steppin' in/ It's the power I feel from wearing a heel/ I've reached a new height."

She reads them grimace-free. "This is a good start," she says. With that, she's set off a flashbulb of inspiration, and we're shouting out words you'd hear in a women's deodorant commercial: Powerful! Strong! Sexy! Twenty minutes later, we have a chorus: "I want a boy to make me feel the way I feel in my heels."

Book and Misoul jump in with a guitar, and when we're stuck trying to write a line in the second verse, I ask, "So we need something that rhymes with 'high'?" DioGuardi shudders. "Don't do the cheesy songwriter thing where you get the fucking dictionary out," she says. "You gotta come from what's real. Yeah, it's cheesy pop, but it has some bit of truth and integrity. The minute you bring out Dictionary.com and RhymeZone is the minute I'm outta here."

In a couple of hours, "My Heels" is written, the guys have laid the beat on their computer, and DioGuardi records a track I can use for practice. (It's then I realize that DioGuardi's one of the most underrated vocalists in pop music—her voice is fearless; reviews for her turn as Roxie Hart in Broadway's Chicago last fall called her performance "impressively crafted…grounded by her terrific vocals.") We play "My Heels" a few times, and DioGuardi and I can't help but model-strut through the kitchen. It's an electro dance-floor detonator, and my spirits don't flag even when Book marvels, "This actually is a really good song."

When I return the next day to record (two pairs of mall-bought stilettos in tow—DioGuardi insisted I bring a pair as a confidence-booster), I've got pterodactyl-size butterflies in my stomach. She arrives with bottle in hand. "You want a glass of wine?" I must look petrified, because she doesn't wait for an answer. "Yeah, you do! Because we're gonna kick your ass today."

Here's where I divulge the secrets behind recording a pop song: In the booth, the music plays through headphones, so yes, you have to wear one ear to hear the song and keep the other off to hear yourself sing. (I always thought it was just a cool-musician affectation.) And no one ever sings an entire song in a single take. Book tells me that I'll sing the first verse 20 times, the second 20 times, etc. Book also says that he'll use music software to correct pitch and timing, which takes the pressure off me to sound perfect (and suddenly explains Ke$ha's entire career), but that a computer can't do attitude.

But as I stare at the lyrics on my iPhone, my nerves get the best of me, and I completely miss my cue. Through the wall, Misoul is shouting for me to keep going, so I try, already feeling defeated. It's a rough start, but when I open the door to the living room, DioGuardi, Book, and Misoul all seem unfazed. My pitch is great, they say, my timing is on, and all I need to do is amp up the attitude. "It's slinky, it's sexy," DioGuardi says. "You're walking the catwalk in there." I know exactly what she means, so I rip off the headphones, dash across the room, and put on the heels I bought that morning. And with that, I find my Sasha Fierce for 54 minutes, until I've finished recording my very first pop song.

Two weeks later, I'm on the music-video set that Joe Zee and ELLE Design Director Paul Ritter have concocted. The concept: I'm working late in the office, and my editor is pestering me about deadlines, so I escape into a male dancer–filled fantasy world choreographed by Derek Mondello and Cody Rigsby, who's danced in ­Madonna's "Give Me All Your Luvin' " video. The video director is Marcel Wepper, who's made some of ELLE.com's gorgeous behind-the-cover videos, and our tireless fashion team calls in dresses and accessories for me. For the fantasy dance sequence, I'm wearing a form-fitting black Diane von Furstenberg dress, five-inch crystal-encrusted Louboutin pumps, and at least 17 layers of electric-purple eye shadow. My hair is reaching Diana Ross heights, and maybe it's all the Elnett I've inhaled, but I'm feeling…not like myself. Which is a relief, because I'm about to do my first close-up lip sync into a camera.

"Julie, how strong do you want the fan?" asks an assistant. Clueless, I toss the question to Rigsby and the other backup dancers: Mondello, Ehizoje Azeke, Moncef Outiche, and Quintin Payton. Professionals in the glamour-shot department, they shout in unison: "Beyoncé!" I can already tell that they'll be my purple cow.

Before the camera rolls, I ask one of them, 21-year-old Mondello, who's assisted Beyoncé choreographer Sheryl Mura­kami, to coach me through a few moves. "Sheryl always says that you need to be touching yourself," he enthuses. "Which sounds weird, but it's true!" I run my hands across my double-Spanxed torso, and Mondello squeals in delight. "And when in doubt," he says, "Waterfall." He walks me through the move, which involves interlocking both hands behind your neck and lifting up your hair until it falls around you like the crash of a waterfall. I try it, and my curls get stuck in my oversize cocktail ring. Mondello doesn't seem to notice. He's too busy shrieking, "Yes! Yes! You got it!"

But just as with my first recording-booth take, I'm unsteady when the director calls "Action!" There's a lens two feet from my face, and behind that, at least 10 crew members are clustered around the playback monitor. I'm trying to channel my Sasha Fierce again—her name is Julez—but I can tell she's MIA. After the first sing-through, Wepper sweetly tells me it looks great, but that I need to, ya know, sex it up a bit. Ritter puts it more bluntly: "So this song, it's not about wanting a boy to make you feel good in your heels," he says. "It's about wanting to be…." He's too polite to say it, but I know what he means.

Perhaps that is what the song's about. In any case, sexual desire isn't easy to convey in front of your bosses. The song starts, and I close my eyes. I imagine a love interest behind the camera lens (who exactly is a secret I won't share), and like that, I'm in the zone. It's not until verse two that I notice the dancers shouting from behind the monitor: "Waterfall! Waterfall!"

Within a week after going live on YouTube, "My Heels" has nearly 16,000 hits. Not bad­—full disclosure: ELLE's PR team landed an exclusive with New York magazine's The Cut blog—but not the viral count I was hoping for. As Kreayshawn says, who knows why certain things blow up and others don't? (Maybe I needed a Bieber cameo?)

But the video is getting comments, some good—thank you, Coquete82L, for: "She is gorgeous, I'm just bummed the guys can dance in heels better than me. Catchy song I liked it." There are others I could live without, so I try to remind myself that I'm a writer, not a pop star. (Though I'm still a person, and that one "fat girl" YouTube comment kind of stung.) I get that for Rebecca Black or anyone else pursuing a music career via YouTube, the stakes are higher, and I, for one, can let go of my rock-star fantasies. But seriously, Drake: Tweet me.